The September Sonnets: Prelude

perhaps i love alliteration’s taste

while rolling off my putrid soiled tongue;

or maybe its a calling from the grave

of Estlin, whom with admittance i love;

it all could be my ode to Carol Ann,

but thirty is so strange a number blessed;

i question thoughts of Shakespeare’s great demands,

embracing Shelly’s quick and doting press;

but all in all i fear i can’t decide

just why the fuels my wanton ways—

so now, September’s days: for each i write

a sonnet for these kindred thirty days.

a month of sonnets; now it all begins

the poet now confesses thirty sins.